


deserving

by Jara257



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Age Difference, Blind Character, Gunplay, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Self-cest, Time Travel, but idk i went in wanting to smut but came out with feels, i mean the main objective is still porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-15
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-08-08 21:36:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7774585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jara257/pseuds/Jara257
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>76 didn’t have to look to know that Morrison was really sizing him up now. He could practically hear the cogs turning under that blond head of spiked hair, errant and deliberate thoughts running a mile a minute. He knew what they contained, he had to. That mind used to be his, after all. He waited for the inevitable question.</p><p>“What… what happened to us?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	deserving

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to @dadsimulator2016 on tumblr for being my beta on this one! They really helped spruce up the writing ;_;
> 
> Also, I know that in terms of timeline, this technically shouldn't be possible bc Tracer and Winston only joined Overwatch way after Morrison was promoted to Strike Commander but as the old fandom saying goes 'fuck the canon, i'm here to smut'. Or something like that.

Jack Morrison was dead. It was a truth, even as the shell of the once-legend still breathed and walked. But not living. Wandering the world, looking and searching for answers, for the ‘why’. Still fighting because it was all he knew. No, this wasn’t living. The vigilante simply kept himself occupied, still stubborn enough to keep moving. But never move on.

It’s why Soldier: 76 entered an abandoned safehouse after having raided yet another Overwatch facility for information. He couldn’t move on from the organization that had been his life for the better part of his years. Jack Morrison may have been dead, but the lingering hooks of old powers greater than him still clung to his corpse, making him dance as they pleased. He was too tired to shake them. Too stubborn to admit they still affected him.

The old soldier breathed in the stale air, keeping his hands steady on his heavy pulse rifle while his visor quickly scanned for other signs of life within the facility. There was nothing.

Bones aching, he immediately made for the couch, intent to crash on it and fall into the dark embrace of sleep, uncaring of the sweat and grime clinging to his skin and clothing. He can deal with all that after a few hours of rest. He needed this. He took only a minute to place his pulse rifle against the armrest and then unlatch his visor, his orange-tinted pseudo vision lapsing into simple light and dark blobs.

A greenie’s mistake.

He heard the intruder behind him, far too close for comfort, and he ducked down to escape the attempted choke hold of his assailant before quickly turning and knocking the other across the cheek with a forceful elbow. The intruder stumbled and the soldier quickly followed through with a swift kick to the legs, sending the other sprawling to the ground.

76 followed the grunt of pain and quickly pressed the assailant into the hard floor using his weight, straddling the attacker’s legs and grabbing at wrestling arms to pin them to the ground. Trapped.

“Who sent you?” he growled, baring his teeth to his would-be assassin, “Talon?”

The surprised choke from underneath him sounded almost offended. It sounded strangely familiar. “Wha--I’m,  _ no _ ! God, no.”

“Then tell me who the fuck you are before I spill your brains onto the floorboards,” he threatened, grip tightening on thick wrists. He knew this voice--male, slightly youthful, a low tenor. Why couldn’t he put a face to it?

“I’m…” The man trailed off, as though trying to consider what his name was. “You.”

“What?” he barked, ready to give the man a swift punch to the nose for being a smart alec.

“Are you…” He spoke barely above a breath. If 76 hadn’t heard the name so many times, he might’ve mistaken it for something else. But as the words registered in his mind, he felt a cold feeling slide down his back. “Jack Morrison?” 

He didn’t let it phase him. 76 delivered the punch across the other man’s nose, blood bursting with a sickening crack. “I asked who  _ you _ are, punk, so cut the crap and give me a damn answer!”

He gave the mystery attacker a beat to recover. The voice was slightly more nasally now, but it still held that distant wonder in its tone. And something else--something he wasn’t sure he could identify. “I think… I think I’m  _ you _ .”

“This ain’t  _ Who’s On First _ , kid,” he barked, his already limited patience thinning out even more quickly. “You’re not leaving unless you give me what information I want, so give me a straight answer.”

“I think we’re anything but straight, future me.” 76 knew what it was; mirth. “I’m guessing I don’t get much action in that department in the future, huh?”

76 punched him again. He drew more blood and a cough this time. “Are you trying to play funny with me? ‘Cause I’m not laughing.”

“No, no,” the man coughed again after a short pause. “I’m… honestly, I’m being serious, I promise. I mean, I was hoping I’d age better, but it’s hard to deny it’s like looking in a mirror here. I’m just--” The man stopped, as though taking a moment to try and find the best words. His next words come out soft, filled with shock and genuine query. “God, do I really go blind?”

The low mutter was filled with just enough bewilderment, just enough curiosity to catch the old soldier off-guard. He frowned, pressing his lips together. He wanted to chide himself for even considering the man’s deceit as truth. Yet his own curiosity had been piqued. There was no way this man’s claim could possibly be true. So why reach for such a preposterous lie?

There was really only one way of knowing for sure.

“Make any sudden moves and you’re dead,” he warned lowly before slowly taking his right hand off from the attacker’s left. It didn’t move from its place.

He used his hand to grip at the other’s chin and pressed the calloused pad of his thumb against soft lips. Unmarred, not a scratch. Yet the skin was eerily familiar. He could feel the other swallow nervously against his knuckles. 

He removed his hand and the other man breathed out. Still wary. His hand trailed downward, pressing into the fabric of the other man’s shirt--distinct and prominent abdominal muscles --before reaching the hem. He pushed it upward quickly and suddenly he felt a hand at his own try to halt his movements, but the soldier quickly batted it out of the way and snapped, “What did I say?”

His assailant made no further moves. After a few moments, he continued his ministrations, pushing a tight-fitting shirt up before sliding his hand beneath the fabric, running his fingers over the curves of muscle, dipping to the left, just above the hip, feeling for it. A jagged groove. The scar.

“First year into the military and my first scar was from a runaway forklift,” Jack said, a distinct smile in his voice, “But it seems like I get a lot more in the future. You wanna let me up now?”

Soldier: 76 punched him across the face once more before standing and carefully walking back to the couch for his visor. 

“ _ Geez _ , what the  _ hell _ \--”

“You’ll live through worse. Winston and Lena have a hand in this?” He quickly found his visor and latched it back on, his orange-tinted vision returning to deliver more distinct shapes to his brain. It was hardly like actually seeing, but turning back to Morrison, there was no denying the similar shape and build of the man’s silhouette. It matched his own cutting figure as though staring at a reflection--he was the real deal. Or perhaps, more likely, a vivid dream. Either way, might as well play along.

Jack wiped at his nose, presumably to wipe away the blood before answering. “Honestly, I don’t really know. That’s probably my best guess as well, but I wasn’t exactly anywhere near them before… well, before I got here.”

“Right. And what were you doing before you got here?” While this other Jack was highly likely a younger version of himself, courtesy of the weird magic of science or some bullshit, it was still difficult to tell from what  _ exact _ time he was from. And that was important. He sounded so young, so naive still.

Had he even met Reyes yet?

“Hm… I don’t know what would be significant enough for you to put a date to it,” Morrison said, gears already turning. He’d already caught on to his implication. They were the same person, why wouldn’t he?

_ But Jack Morrison should’ve died a long time ago. _

“Oh, wait, of course!” the younger said, snapping his fingers. “The promotion! I was… well, I guess  _ we _ were just promoted to Strike-Commander a few months ago.”

76’s blood seemed to freeze in his veins as the words passed Morrison’s lips. He sounded so elated, so happy. He was still riding off the high, still so hopeful for Overwatch’s future. The old soldier may have been legally blind for the last half decade, but he could see the hooks already sunk deep into Morrison’s skin. His skin.

Morrison continued before 76 could formulate any kind of response. “So… how much time has passed? For you, that is. Forty years? Fifty?”

The old soldier took a moment before answering, trying to brush away the rising anger in his throat. His answer was surly. “Think you’re forgetting that we don’t exactly age so gracefully. It’s been ten.”

The surprised exclamation along with the visceral amount of shock in Morrison’s posture managed to tug a smile from him. But just barely. He wasn’t cruel.

“I’m pulling your leg, kid. 25 years.” He made his way to the couch, sitting himself down gracelessly with an aged grunt.

Out of the corner of his vision, he could see Jack’s shoulders relax some at the correction, but the sense of disbelief remained in his tone. “25 years…”

76 didn’t have to look to know that Morrison was really sizing him up now. He could practically hear the cogs turning under that blond head of spiked hair, errant and deliberate thoughts running a mile a minute. He knew what they contained, he had to. That mind used to be his, after all. He waited for the inevitable question.

“What… what happened to us?”

“To me, kid,” 76 quickly responded, “You won’t know, not for a long while. It doesn’t hit you ‘til it’s too late.”

He felt the shift in Morrison’s approach. Reassessing. “I… maybe I shouldn’t know. It might mess up something. I mean… you don’t remember this at all?”

“Don’t you think I’d tell you if I did?” he growled, mildly annoyed by the inane question. Was he honestly this dense at this age? 

Morrison shut his mouth at that and took a moment before hesitantly approaching his place on the musty couch, stopping just short of actually sitting. The silent question hung in the dusty air. 76 only offered a small grunt, relaxing his posture slightly. His hand brushed at the pistol strapped to his leg. Morrison had nothing.

It didn’t seem to phase the younger man as he sat next to his white-haired counterpart. The air of caution remained.

76 was about to reach a hand up until he caught Morrison mirroring the action, his hand running through his locks, the motion brushing his hair to spike it up. He kept his hand pressed to his holster. Nervous habits died hard.

“It--it doesn’t seem like you’re leading Overwatch anymore,” Morrison said, the words spilling from his tongue awkwardly. It caught in the stale air of the small, dimly-lit room, the cracks in the wall’s paint, the mildew growing in the corners seemingly punctuating the observation. The words are clunky and stiff, so unlike the eloquent cadence that same voice carried in front of the cameras. Location and presentation.

“Overwatch was disbanded,” the old soldier said plainly, as though discussing the weather. The sky had been overcast all day.

Morrison was quiet. 76 didn’t know what he was thinking. He waited. 

“Maybe you shouldn’t be telling me--” he started before the older man cut him off with a snap.

“If I don’t remember this happening, then I don’t think it matters, now does it?” 

“I suppose not,” Morrison muttered after a brief pause. They said nothing after this, simply taking each other in. Morrison’s bright, curious and careful air versus 76’s tired, haggard and surly demeanour. It was certainly a picture to paint and 76 was sure there’d be some poetry to wax about it all, no doubt already running through Morrison’s own mind, capping the questions bubbling within him. He decided to cut out the question time, offer the answers he already knew he wanted.

“I led Overwatch for over 20 years. We did a lot good in the world,” he opened, knowing that would pique Morrison’s sense of hope. He almost felt bad about dashing them against the dark rocks of reality. “But we’d done a lot of bad as well. Word got out and soon, folks started saying we were the problem. Various crime syndicates, Doomfist and the like started appearing across the globe. And suddenly we weren’t doing enough to protect them.”

76 took a moment to pause, to let his words sink in. He pressed forward again before Morrison could formulate any questions. “There was bad blood boiling within the ranks ‘til it came to a head at the Zurich headquarters. An explosion that took out a lot of good people.” He gave a small pause. “People think I died that day.”

“But you’re here, aren’t you?” Morrison murmured.

76 didn’t answer that. He didn’t know if he could give a definite one. He answered an unasked question instead. “After it was disbanded, most of the other members moved on. Or are trying to. Some have bounties on their heads, some have taken to mercenary work, others are still fighting for justice as some brand of vigilante. Some are trying to live some semblance of a normal life.”

He cut himself off there, deciding that was enough. There was no need to get much more personal than that.

But he should’ve known Morrison was more bull-headed than that.

“I need to know something. I don’t want to assume but--” Morrison ran a hand through his hair again. “You... Gabe.”

76 fought to keep himself from bristling at the nickname, keeping his expression hidden behind his mask. He said nothing.

Morrison took a few moments, starting and stopping himself, a million questions running in his hopeful mind before arriving at the simplest question. Yet it’s one that the old soldier least expected. 

“Is he happy?”

It caught the older man off-guard. He actually turned his head to look at Morrison directly, seeing the distinct shape of his head tilting curiously, his posture hesitant and stiff. Three words had turned the tables and suddenly 76 felt questions flooding to the fore. Had he really once cared so much? What were they even doing at that time? Had they already begun to drift? Had things already begun to feel strained in their relationship that he felt the need to ask? What were the signs?

But as quickly as curiosity flooded his mind, soon came the baked arguments and underscored loathing he’d been holding for his past decisions, for his naivete. It was Morrison who had accepted the position, continued to put his own self before Gabriel, turning a blind eye to the idea that he may have been less qualified. Why hadn’t he done anything about it? Why hadn’t he saved him? What can he do now to change it?

He could see the hooks in Morrison’s skin again.

But one fact kept these questions from spilling onto their laps to confuse and disturb the younger man. 

“He can’t be much of anything anymore. Gabriel’s dead,” he said, a quiet anger in his voice, as though trying to ensure the tone never left the confines of his mask. “Zurich.”

Morrison picked up on it. He could hear the cogs turning again. The younger man could connect the dots--bad blood, fighting in the ranks, Zurich. Gabriel. And it all began with a promotion, twenty years earlier. And Morrison had done nothing to stop it.

It’s a long, tense moment before he registered a hand reaching out toward him hesitantly and his hand immediately snapped to his holstered pistol. Old habits died hard. But the warning did nothing to deter the hand from pressing a thumb to the large scar stretching across the growing expanse of his forehead. His hand didn’t retract from the pistol. The silent question was there again.

“Yes,” he said simply.

“And the rest of it?”

He contemplated this before removing his hand from the pistol, reaching up to feel for the catches behind his mask once again. His world faded back into a hazy blur of simple light and dark as he set the visor to the side. He could still shoot without his vision.

He didn’t pull the gun from its holster. Instead, the soldier tried to keep his features schooled as Morrison’s hand explored the grooves and riddled surface of his face, clearly ruined by the force of some sort of explosion, a powerful one. He could barely feel the pads of Morrison’s fingers against the pocked surface.

“Did… do we ever make up?” Jack asked trepidatiously. 

A messy cocktail of surly, dismissive and flippant answers swam to the fore and 76 couldn’t decide which would hurt him the most.  _ No, it stews and festers because you’re too much of an ass to see past your pretty nose _ , he wanted to say.

“That’s up to you,” he settled. The smiling huff Morrison let out made his eye twitch slightly. He’d taken it with a much more hopeful tone than the haggard one the soldier had given. Pure, bright-eyed Morrison. An idiot. 

_ You don't deserve it. _

In an instant, his hand shoots out from its place on his holster, gripping at Morrison’s thick neck and shoving him back. The suddenness caught the young soldier off guard and he fell back gracelessly, their legs tangling with one another clumsily. A hand grasped at 76’s to pry him off as Morrison let out a choked cry. “I thought-- _ nk! _ \-- we were done fighting.” 

76 offered no quip in return, his face hovering mere inches from Morrison’s, keeping his features blank. He could feel Morrison breathing carefully beneath his hold. He could feel the diplomacy bubbling up in his younger coutnerpart’s throat, ready to try and disarm him with words. Predictable.

The old soldier snarled and closed the distance between their lips to swallow the words. He pressed in harshly, biting hard enough to draw blood from the soft flesh. He felt Morrison stiffen in surprise beneath him and as Morrison’s lips parted in surprise, the soldier dove in, releasing his hold on Morrison’s throat to cup his cheek as he pushed his tongue against his younger self’s insistently. It was only when Morrison’s shock wore off and he began to reciprocate that he drew back, his hand still pressing against pale skin.

Jack’s breath was short as he panted, his voice underscored with confusion, trepidation. Desire. “Why…?”

76 took a moment, wondering if he should tell the truth. He didn’t. “Said it yourself. Haven’t gotten much action lately,” he muttered, absently running his thumb over Morrison’s cheek. “And who knows what I like better than me?”

It wasn’t really a lie; he’d hardly had the time nor the motivation to even beat himself off save for the occasional lonely night in a musty, abandoned bed. But in truth, he wanted to take his frustrations out on someone--needed to do it. He’d been taking out his frustrations on himself for the past 6 years, constantly berating, regretting, excusing. A constant cycle of trying to forget and trying to remember, the endless ‘what ifs’ and ‘who cares’. He’d been through this long enough. He was tired. He was angry.

But then, this was hardly any different, wasn’t it? Looking to sate his self-directed anger and loathing and project it onto this younger version of himself. It  _ was _ him. Only it wasn’t. No, in fact, this was better. In the flesh, the bright-eyed, golden boy Strike-Commander Morrison, fresh from his promotion. Naive, hopeful, oblivious. Physically here to lash out at and berate. To mash and beat his face into concrete like he’d wanted for himself for so long.

_ You should know better, _ he wanted to say.  _ You should be commending Gabe for the position. But you just smiled and accepted it--naive, oblivious  _ Strike-Commander _ Morrison. _

Instead, he swallowed the words and the vigilante’s thumb trailed down to Morrison’s lips to press lightly but firmly against the flesh there. Morrison took a moment of pause, perhaps waiting for some kind of explanation from his older counterpart. 76 offered none. He felt the young blond cautiously part his lips and 76 quickly pushed the calloused thumb in, pressing against the tongue there. Morrison shivered against him and the old soldier could read his thoughts as though they were running through his own mind--the thrill of forbiddenness, unexplored territory. A sense of wrongness with doing such lewd things with your own self, differing only by the many years apart. He had half a mind to press his thumb in further to make his younger self gag.

He held his intent to himself as he felt Morrison’s tongue press back, swirling around the thumb pad and nail, all the way up to his knuckle. Soft lips closed around the finger, suckling gently before pulling back to lave at the rest of his fingers. This time it was 76’s turn to shiver, recalling how he’d once done the exact same thing hands much larger than his own. Larger and darker in complexion.

He pulled his hand away, noticing Jack trailing after it for a moment before stopping himself. He wiped away the already drying saliva onto Morrison’s shirt before pressing his scarred lips against his unmarred visage once again, lapping at the blood still smeared on his counterpart’s lips before tilting his head and pushing in deeper. Morrison took a split second’s pause before responding, cautiously pushing back as though to test the waters. It didn’t take long before he’s diving in head long, twining his tongue with 76’s. While lips, tongue and teeth clashed, 76’s hands slipped down to push up Morrison’s shirt once again, this time with a different intent.

The older counterpart felt Jack whine against him and he knew if he’d been anyone else, he’d have trouble identifying the whine as insistent or protesting. Only one other person had been able to tell that.

He brushed the thought aside--he took Jack’s encouragement to keep pushing his shirt up to expose his broad chest to the open air, taking a brief moment to pull Morrison’s shirt over his head before thumbing at the pink peaks there before twisting them enough to sting. The soft mouth against his lips let out a gasp and he felt Jack’s more nimble body arch into him. There was a hardness pressing into his thigh. He wrestled down the disgusted feeling rising in his throat, pushing Morrison back into the couch with a forceful hand. How could he possibly have been this lewd?

Morrison seemed to pick up the implication, his breathing still shallow in 76’s ears. “We really don’t have to. I mean…” He gave a small huff of a laugh here. “Wasn’t really how I would’ve expected a meeting with future me to go.”

The older man wanted pull out his pistol and shoot him right in his half-hardening dick. Ever the saint, always understanding and good-natured. That was Jack Morrison.

Soldier: 76 was much more selfish than Jack Morrison.

“Turn around,” he ordered, pulling his weight off of Morrison slightly to allow his younger counterpart to maneuver on the awkward couch. He could just barely feel the shiver of anticipation from Morrison and 76 faintly realized that he’d been using his ‘commanding officer’ tone. The little fucker was getting off on it.

He spared no time surging forward to press himself against Morrison’s backside just as the younger man settled onto his knees. Immediately, 76 wedged a thigh in between Morrison’s legs to spread them further apart as he sucked and bit at his exposed neck and shoulders, drawing crescent blood moons in some areas. Morrison gasped and writhed underneath him, shaking and rutting back against 76’s thigh, the fabric of their clothing hindering direct skin on skin contact. Morrison whined for more, pushing back impatiently. 76 held him in place with a firm hand at his hip, preventing him from continuing his obscene display. 

_ This isn’t for you. _

76 reached to Morrison’s side pocket on his cargo pants--if he remembered correctly, what he needed would still be in there. Undoing the velcro, he reached in and fished out a few square, silvery packets. He hadn’t used these in ages, but Morrison clearly wasn’t so short on that front. Not yet anyway.

He tossed the condoms off to the side, keeping the lube palmed as he tugged at his younger self’s belt, undoing the buckle, the zipper, before sliding Morrison’s garments down to expose his skin to the air. He left the fabric pooled around Morrison’s knees, too impatient to pull off his boots. He felt Morrison shudder in relief as his hardened member was released from its confines, but paid it no heed as he surged forward once again to bite at the shell of Jack’s ear and reached around to grip at Morrison’s cock. His cock. It was far too familiar a feel in his hand and his ministrations felt almost natural as he stroked the length. It was utterly bizarre, knowing just what would get the younger man riled, what would bring him to the brink of a climax, yet feeling none of it himself. 

Despite himself, a pool of heat began to gather in his lower stomach and he could feel the cock matching the one in his hand beginning to strain against the fabric of his garments. An anger stirred in his chest.  _ What are you, 20? _

The old soldier projected the punishment onto Morrison, twisting his hand  _ just _ so and roughly thumbing at the precum leaking from the tip, drawing a breathy curse in response from the blond’s lips. But it’s what followed that had him halting his movements.

“Gabe...”

76 froze as the name left his younger counterpart’s mouth like a prayer. Liquid fire seeped into his veins as those strange yet familiar whines reached his ears. Even during this obscene debacle, this mockery toward whatever intimacy he'd once held for a dirty fuck, Morrison was still thinking about him. Still too damn naive to see what he was doing, what he wasn't doing.

He wanted to fuck Morrison into the floorboards, beat his head against it ‘til he bled. It was what Morrison wanted. He should know--76 could remember all the times he’d wanted the same from a larger, dark figure. Wanted and pined for, even as that figure gradually became more a thorn in his side than a pleasurable sting up his back. More tugging from the hooks in his dying body.

_ A quick fuck. That’s all I am, isn’t it? _

76 almost forwent the lube entirely, ready to shove his fingers up Morrison’s bared ass without preamble. He took the effort, though. Just barely. Ripping open the packet, he slicked up his fingers before circling Morrison’s entrance for barely a moment. He pressed in, inserting himself to the first, second knuckle and the young blond jerked in response, bracing himself on his forearms and moaning. As 76 began to thrust, Morrison let out something like a huff, amused as though he wanted to say something. The words spilled out, shuddering with each thrust. “Gabe… always said we were too far up our own ass, hah…”

76 growled in response, promptly inserting another two fingers in a single motion. He slapped his other hand over Morrison’s mouth, almost bending the younger man’s back to an obscene degree while doing so. “Did I seriously talk this fucking much?” he groused with a huff.

Morrison offered no answer, merely breathing heavily and whining into 76’s hand. He felt the younger man run his tongue across the surface of his fingers, trying to pull one of them into his mouth. 76 let him, continuing to push into Morrison, shifting and curling his fingers until Morrison let out a low moan from behind his saliva-slicked fingers. Found it. He continued to press into his prostate, drawing back before surging again and again. Morrison shook underneath him, releasing his hold on 76’s fingers in his mouth, concentration completely lost in favour of burying his face into his arms, letting out breathy curses into the musty patchwork of the couch. That was enough.

Drawing his fingers out, he heard an impatient whine from under him and he was almost tempted to simply leave Morrison like this, wanting with his pants pooled around his legs. 

_ So fucking selfish _ , he wanted to say. To himself or Morrison, he didn't know. Both, he supposed.

76 took a moment to undo his own pants, just tucking the waistband of his underwear beneath his balls before slicking the last of the lube over his own length. With his other hand, he dragged fingernails down the curve of Morrison’s backside, feeling none of the scars littering his own. Not yet. The hand finally halted at his left hip, just over the one scar they shared, gripping tightly to steady the younger man as he lined himself up with Morrison’s abused entrance. Morrison was shaking, but said nothing, clearly trying to relax himself.

_ Boy scout _ .

He pushed in, only stopping once he was past the tip, feeling his younger counterpart jerk and shudder beneath him, adjusting to the much thicker presence of his cock inside him. But the pause was only for the barest moment as he thrust in shallowly, driving himself deeper and deeper each time. The hand gripping at Morrison’s side slid up toward his marked shoulders, to his neck before gripping at light blond to pull Morrison’s head back. Now he could hear the noises that were supposedly words begin to spill from Morrison’s mouth, and he could feel his anger rising once more. Shameless.

His right hand drifted down to the pistol in its holster. This time he removed it. The grip was still familiar in his lube-covered hand as he levelled it at Morrison’s head, just barely brushing at the tips of spiked, blond locks. Morrison was none the wiser, too preoccupied by the dick just barely brushing against his prostate. He could end it here. Blow his own brains out onto the grimy couch. He wondered if he would simply fade out of existence. Maybe he could finally rest. Maybe Reyes would be promoted in his place.  _ Former Strike-Commander Morrison, shot with his own dick up his ass. _

His finger moved to the trigger.

“Unless I develop a thing for gunplay, I’d think you want to kill yourself.”

76 halted his shallow thrusting, his grip on Morrison’s hair tightening. He sounded far more coherent than he'd been a few seconds ago. His younger self wasn’t as dull as he gave him credit for. Gave himself credit for.  His finger remained on the trigger. “Maybe I always had one. You’re still hard, aren’t you?”

“I still have your dick up my ass,” he said plainly, as though this entire scene happened every day despite the breathy huffs still underlying his words. 

In a single movement, 76 leaned back, pulling up Morrison’s head further until the younger was forced to sit in the old soldier’s lap, driving his hardened length into Morrison further. He growled into Morrison’s ear, snapping his hips up to punctuate his barb. “Smart ass.”

“Takes one to know one,” the younger man quipped back between shuddering moans. 76 pressed his pistol to Morrison’s chin, pushing the circular barrel against his jaw hard enough to leave a mark. Jack’s breath stuttered slightly, but clearly, the threat did nothing to affect his lust-addled mind as he lifted himself slightly only to drop himself back down onto the hard member still within him, squeezing down onto the older man. 76’s finger twitched along with his dick. 

“You don’t want to fuck me,” Morrison continued, turning his head to breathe in 76’s ear. 

“I’m doing it now, aren’t I?” He snapped in return, thrusting in harshly for good measure.

A suckle at his neck. “You don't like taking in bed.” 

Another harsh thrust. “Maybe your tastes change.”

“ _ Nn _ \--you aren’t doing this for me,” he insisted, “You aren’t doing this for the sex.”

76 didn’t answer. Perhaps Jack Morrison wasn’t as dead as he’d thought. Still so predictable. He should pull the trigger. 

“You’re angry at me.” His words were barely coherent. “It's something I did.”

“Yes. And no. Not yet.”

“You can't change the past.”  

76 let out a sharp laugh at that, the effect ruined only by his shortened breath that echoed in the small space between them. He pressed the gun further up, forcing it into Morrison’s oral cavity, the metal clacking against perfect, white teeth. Still diplomatic with a dick in his ass and a gun in his face. “Can't I?” he muttered.

He felt Morrison freeze for a moment before he found the gun in his hand shifting slightly in his grip. Slick, suckling sounds soon accompanied the movement and 76 shortly realized Morrison had begun to suck on the gun’s barrel. He could only imagine his pink tongue swirling around the gun-powder flavoured metal, dipping in, out and around in a near worshipful dance.

He drew the gun away in an instant. “You're disgusting.”

Morrison breathed out with an almost amused huff, “What do you know, I  _ do _ have a gun fetish.”

“Shut  _ up _ ,” the old soldier snarled, reaching to grip at Morrison’s member tightly with his free hand once again while thrusting up roughly. A hoarse cry rang out from the younger man, his arms reaching up to wrap around behind 76’s neck to try and hold on. When 76 spoke, he punctuated his words with periodic thrusts, keeping his hand in time with his movements.

“You  _ think _ this is a goddamn  _ joke _ . When you don’t  _ know _ what you’ll fucking  _ do.  _ You don’t even know what you’ve  _ done _ .” He forcefully pushed the gun up to Morrison’s jaw once again, growling throatily. His finger was still on the trigger. “You aren’t fit to lead,  _ Strike-Commander Morrison. _ ” 

Morrison’s breathing was absolutely ragged, the noises spilling from his throat made that much more obscene by the slick noises between their connected bodies, old skin sliding against youthful. 76 barely heard the single name on Morrison’s lips. 

“ _ Jack. _ ”

76 bared his teeth, snapping his hips up more quickly, pumping his hand faster. “ _ Jack Morrison is dead _ .”

A gunshot rang out. A spray of liquid against the couch. A body slumping against his. The room was quiet. The bullet was in the wall.

Soldier: 76 breathed out. So did Jack Morrison. The bullet was in the wall.

It was an eternity before Jack broke the silence, voice still shaking from his climax. “You’re still hard.”

Barely a beat passed before the old soldier lifted Jack from his lap, slipping out without preamble and tossing the young commander to the side. He placed his gun beside him, reaching down to tuck himself back into his pants. A hand over his own halted his attempt.

“Wait.” He waited. “Let me.”

Soldier: 76 felt Morrison shifting beside him before the presence was suddenly nestled between his knees, seated on the hard flooring. His hand drifted to his gun. Strong hands stopped him, dragging the errant appendage to soft locks of hair. He felt the silky strands between his calloused fingers. There was soft air at the tip of his already flagging length--his only warning before he felt soft lips close over him.

The older man recognized the little tricks, the subtle movement of his tongue, the hand wrapping around the base of his member, the small hums from his throat. They’re tricks he’d learned long ago from someone that died long ago. 76 gripped at the soft locks in his hand. “Morrison…”

The younger man gave no response, engulfed in his task. The sloppy, wet noises permeated the room and 76 could feel Morrison relaxing his jaw before his entire length is swallowed up to the hilt, a strong nose burrowing itself into the white hairs there. He was certain the precum leaking from his tip was burning Morrison’s throat and he had half a mind to simply jackhammer into Morrison’s throat, rubbing him raw. 

He refrained. Morrison would’ve loved that. 

_ A real natural _ .

Instead, he relaxed in his seated position, simply allowing himself to feel the warm wetness around him, lustful hums reverbing, a tongue pressing against his flesh. Morrison bobbed his head, keeping a steady rhythm. A hand pressed against his balls and he felt fingers worming their way past the waistband of his underwear. To his annoyance, he felt his cock twitch when warm pads pushed against the puckered flesh there. Morrison no doubt felt it too.

A single finger slipped in, thrusting shallowly in time with the mouth moving around his cock. A shudder ran through his body and before he could stop himself, a groan slipping past his scarred lips. He could feel Morrison smiling around his length. He was right--he loved bottoming far too much.

“Fuck you,” he snarled.  _ Already did that _ , he heard in Morrison’s sly hum.

Despite himself, he could already feel that tight winding in his lower stomach and faintly he wondered if Morrison would swallow or pull back to let it spray all over his face. He always did love both. But the errant thought quickly disappeared in a wave of lust as Morrison pressed another finger in and _curled_ them.

He couldn’t stop the strings of cum that accompany the climax that wracked his body even if he’d truly wanted to. Morrison pressed in, taking it all in. Swallowing, then.

Morrison hollowed his cheeks, drawing out the last waves of his orgasm out of him. He slumped further into the couch, having little energy to try and push Morrison away as he climbed up to straddle his thighs. Before he could register the arms wrapping around him, he found lips that had just been on his cock only moments before pressing against his own, pushing a cum-slicked tongue into his oral cavity. The gun was very present in his mind, but he made no move to grab it.

Morrison pulled away after a few moments and 76 found himself being pulled into a firm embrace, a strong chin resting on his shoulder. He just barely registered the drying cum smearing between their strangely dissimilar yet congruent chests. He couldn’t bring himself to care. Morrison was silent, simply holding him. 76 closed his eyes, breathing in. A shampoo he’d long stopped using underscored the permeating smell of sex. He could remember the brand, the label. He’d used it for years.

He tried to imagine the faintest trace of someone he hadn’t seen since he’d lost his vision. Had taken in his scent in even less. He couldn’t remember the smell.

Morrison broke the silence. “You made mistakes,” he said. “We all do.”

76 let out a long breath, running a hand across Morrison’s back again, looking for something familiar. There was nothing. “You can’t tell me what I don’t already tell myself.”

He felt a hand ruffle at his own white hair. ”Then tell me. Tell me what I can do to fix this, fix… you. Me.”

76 stayed silent for a long moment, wondering what the hell he was supposed to say. What could he say? Would it truly change anything?

Would it matter?

He pulled away from the warm embrace to level his younger self with an unseeing stare. He imagined the all too familiar light blond atop his head, mussed with sweat, a flush on his cheeks, bright blues looking back at him expectantly. Hopeful, always hopeful.

Maybe this would be a second chance. To warn him of the betrayals, to be mindful of the higher powers he answered to. To be wary of the hooks before they buried themselves too deep into his flesh, clung to his corpse.

_ You don't deserve it. _

A strange, high pitched noise rang out in the room and he felt Morrison jerk in surprise in his lap. His own hand shot for the gun until Jack’s voice halted him. “What’s happening?”

He felt the weight in his lap flicker, as though fading in and out of existence. His time was up.

“No, no, I can’t leave--” Morrison’s voice faded in and out, choppy and faint as a bad phone connection. “I need to--

76 heard one last word before the warmth pressing against him disappeared. “ _ Jack. _ ”

And Jack Morrison was gone.

76’s grip was still closed around his pistol. He wouldn’t pull the trigger again. Not tonight.

The vigilante holstered the weapon. Yet another mistake he couldn't fix. He settled, lying down on the couch, just barely large enough to accommodate him. He knew he wouldn’t be getting any sleep tonight. He spoke to the empty room, trying to fill the hollowness in his chest.

“He deserved better.”

He felt the hooks tug at his skin.  _ You don’t really believe that, do you, Jack? _

76 didn’t answer. Jack Morrison was dead.  

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are all appreciated <3 Check me out on my [tumblr](http://jara257.tumblr.com/), I make art things and write sometimes!


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